


I: Muldio

by terma_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-01
Updated: 2000-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:46:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26536033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terma_archivist/pseuds/terma_archivist
Summary: A spin-off from Tunguska; the similarities end when Mulder leaves Krycek in the car at the airport. Also a revisiting of Romeo and Juliet, X-Files style.
Relationships: Alex Krycek/Fox Mulder
Collections: TER/MA





	1. I: Muldio

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alicettlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [TER/MA](https://fanlore.org/wiki/TER/MA) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the TER/MA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/terma/profile).

  
**Graveyard I**

Muldio  
by Meri Lomelindi 

  
Alex Krycek—or whatever his name was, the rat bastard—was banging frantically on the car window. Obscenities were hurled in rapid succession, all aimed at Mulder as he stalked through the airport parking lot; by the time they made it through the thick glass, all Mulder could make out was a low, faint rumbling. He elected to ignore it. 

Who really gave a damn if Krycek starved to death, anyway? Certainly not himself, Mulder thought sullenly as he scuffed the tip of his shoe on a stray bit of cement for emphasis and watched with guarded satisfaction as it hurtled into one of the nearby trucks. It was rather too small to make a dent, but the thrill of impact was better than nothing. 

It was a shame that he couldn't repeat the experiment with Krycek, but he did have his morals to consider, after all. Someone would discover Krycek eventually, setting him loose in the world again like some sort of rabid dog with the peculiar talent of charming his jailers, and when they encountered each other next, he could pull the trigger and have no qualms about claiming that he'd acted in self-defense. Given a choice, he would have preferred a session in one of those extraterrestrial torture chambers with Krycek as the hapless victim of his failed experiments for at least as long as Scully had been missing during her abduction experience; circumstances, however, seemed intent upon limiting his options to only the most humane. Circumstances always sucked. 

This was the price you paid when you started fucking an internationally wanted, equivocating, backstabbing criminal who was hell-bent on carrying out plans which were the exact opposite of your goals. He had finally begun to realize this during the past few months, as he tried to convince himself that fucking had been the true extent of their relationship. 

Thoroughly bored to tears with his job and his fruitless search for Samantha, as well as having had more than his share of scornful ridicule from the high-and-mighty of the FBI, he had eagerly acquiesced when his lover—former lover, he corrected—had waved a pair of gleaming plane tickets in front of his weary, bloodshot eyes and suggested that they elope under certain assumed names that he had artfully appropriated from his employers. People never bestowed enough attention on underlings; it was the same mistake, repeated time and time again—although Mulder didn't mind at all in this particular instance. The only person he might have missed was his partner, and, at any rate, he could always send her letters or give her an anonymous phone call every once in a while after they found a secure line in Australia. 

That was three months ago. Krycek had snatched one last romp in the bedroom for himself and then promised that he would return in two days with a suitcase and all affairs shuffled into perfect order. Accordingly, Mulder waited. And waited. And waited. After a month or so, his constant state of anticipation was substituted with a boiling vat of fury and rage; now, having caught up with the man who had jilted him so unexpectedly and found him lacking in explanations for his wanton cruelty, the teeming vat had bubbled over and flooded him with near-mindless animosity. 

He would relish the opportunity to reveal Krycek's true nature at the trial, Mulder thought with no small amount of glee as he approached the perimeter of the lot and headed for the airport itself. The shots rang out when he was still quite a ways away from the crowd of people that thronged around the revolving doors, effectively suffocating themselves and making it supremely easy for thieves to steal their luggage. Idiots. 

Not a single doubt lingered in his mind—Krycek was involved, and somehow they'd been followed. He turned on a dime and limped back in the direction of his rental car at as fast a pace as he could muster and with several muted groans, because he had -literally- turned on a dime that someone had left on the ground, tripped, and twisted his ankle in the process. Gasping in agony by the time he reached the right vehicle, he took in, with ever increasing trepidation, the open door on the driver's side and the long, denim-clad leg which dangled from it motionlessly. Tempted to give the posterior attached to it a solid kick but refraining due to the possible demise of its owner or perhaps himself if the situation was a trap, he peered cautiously over the door handle after canvassing the area with his gun and scuttling to the side of the car. 

Krycek lay on the seat, curled into a fetal position with the exception of his leg. His shirt was torn ragged in the front to reveal a gaping bullet wound from which liquid gushed in a steady stream, oozing onto the upholstery and staining the complimentary map of D.C. that the rental company always tucked just under the seat. The windshield had been lightly spattered with the force of the shot. A phlegmy cough alerted him to the fact that Krycek was still alive, glassy eyes rolling up in his head, chest rising and falling marginally with each shallow, rapid breath that escaped his lips. The amount of air he captured each time his mouth opened was slowly but surely diminishing. 

There were no words to be uttered; Mulder was locked in solitude with remorse and waves of sorrow that rocked him to the core of his being. There was a twinge of something else—he couldn't determine what it was—and it vanished from thought and feeling as he knelt on the rough pavement beside his lover and checked his vital signs, which were about as far from promising as Mulder was from a hospital. 

Nostrils flared in recognition as Mulder's hand crept up to caress the other man's cheek; there was a feeble lifting of fingers that then fell limp against the fabric of the seat, defeated. The familiar mouth worked silently, tongue darting out to lick the lips clean, and—not liking the metallic taste—Krycek almost gagged. Only his flagging strength prevented him from coughing up the drops of swallowed blood. 

Mulder's eyes were boring into him, wide and haunted, his meager medical skills useless in the face of the obviously mortal wound. Where was Scully when you really needed her.. 

"Mulder." Krycek was half-choking, his head shifting back and forth. He would have been writhing if he had that much range of movement, and the way his tongue kept lolling out must have made it difficult for him to speak at all, much less murmur Mulder's name. 

"Yeah." He couldn't force anything else out of his own mouth, even inflection, and he knew that the result was a grating whisper. A blind passerby might have thought them both to be injured. 

Krycek's lips parted again, soundlessly at first, but then there was a croaking attempt at sentience. "Lo—" was what issued forth from the abused larynx, the rest of the word heartlessly thwarted by the light that had dimmed and twinkled out of existence in the now glazed eyes. Flopping uselessly to the side, the head twisted the neck at an unnatural angle, and the punctured lungs drew one last, shuddering breath before they ceased to function entirely. 

Overcome by the desire to hold Krycek close, Mulder gathered the other man into his arms and wept over the broken body, now devoid of the vibrancy that he should have cherished while it still burned brightly within him. Tears soon mingled with the blood and effectively soaked his clothing, matting his hair into clumps, clotting and caking on his cheeks. He couldn't have cared less. 

It wasn't long at all before he wrenched his hands away from the stiffening corpse, his head tilting up at the sky; he gazed at the stars with the solemn, desperate ineptitude of someone who has the ability to recognize a poignant moment but is unable to find the words to express the vitality of it or the courage to act. 

When he did glance down, it was to situate himself beside Krycek within the vehicle, dragging the other man's taut legs inside and setting the locking mechanism. His mercurial eyes flickered once at the still face of his lover, classic even in death. Then the gun was gingerly slipped out of its holster, delicately, carefully aimed, and then allowed to rip through the confines of his skull. 

* * *

Date: January 2000   
Fandom: X-Files   
Contact: [email removed], feedback begged for.   
Spoilers: Tunguska   
Rating: PG for cursing, blood, etc.   
Class: Story/Angst   
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek, slash   
Keywords: Mulder Krycek slash character death   
Summary: A spin-off from Tunguska; the similarities end when Mulder leaves Krycek in the car at the airport. Also a revisiting of Romeo and Juliet, X-Files style.   
Disclaimer: The X-Files and everything therein belong to Chris Carter, 1013, Fox, and company. I'm just borrowing shamelessly. Without profit, I swear.   
Notes: Beta by Julie and Orithain, 'cause I begged.   
---


	2. II: Kryciet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A spin-off from Tunguska; the similarities end when Mulder leaves Krycek in the car at the airport. Also a revisiting of Romeo and Juliet, X-Files style.

  
**Graveyard II**

Kryciet  
by Meri Lomelindi 

  
The shot sang through the chill of the air, causing Krycek to increase his pace by a factor of ten as he navigated the narrow aisles between the cars in the airport parking lot. He'd just received word from one of his fellow informants of gunfire near Mulder's last reported location, and evidently that hadn't been the last of it. Fuck—he never should've allowed anyone else to watch over Mulder, not even for an instant. The hired grunts seemed to be incapable of grasping the concept that Mulder lived in constant danger, though from his actions, he wasn't aware of it either. Only Krycek had done the research, figured out the differences between the Consortium's factions; now he knew who would benefit from Mulder's untimely demise. Who wanted him alive, the resources of each brief alliance, and the precarious threads that tied him to life. Those resources were far from few; anything Mulder touched was a risk to him, these days. And no one but Krycek cared enough about the seemingly oblivious FBI agent to look out for his welfare, although Krycek had never exactly told him so. Not that it mattered what Mulder knew if something had happened to him during Krycek's stroll through the Defense archives. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. He never should have taken the damned job; Mulder was the priority. Some other idiot could have erased the evidence with just as much ease. 

Skidding to a halt as he reached the general vicinity of Mulder's rental car—according to the grunts, and anything they discovered was to be taken with a grain of salt—Krycek blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the lack of functioning lights in this section of the lot. Squinting and muttering an oath, he tried to make out the shapes and models of the nearby vehicles; no luck. Then he stared in consternation and disbelief. 

A faint hissing sound had issued from the car directly beside him, and he could see the faint, shady outline of limbs in the veil of darkness, splayed bonelessly along the seat. In a rush of terror he tried to yank the door open and discovered that it was locked, the dark, scuffed boots pressed against the glass taunting him, begging him to gain entry. They were Mulder's shoes. 

Precious time slipped by as he tugged on the handle with growing desperation, the pervasive murkiness of fear clouding his judgment. Then, suddenly, he remembered—he had a flashlight. 

It was tiny, fitting perfectly into a belt loop, and it shone into the car's interior with a flick of the finger. First on the splatters that coated the window, and then Krycek shifted his grip so that the narrow beam traveled slowly up the length of the long leg to the flat, unmoving chest and the gun that rested upon it, clutched tightly in the hand that had spasmed shut around it in death. The light moved again to focus on what lay beneath Mulder's body, and Krycek found himself facing a disintegrating version of.. himself. 

Sunken into the seat and covered in green goo as it was, Krycek could still recognize his clone. The same clothes, the same slightly recessive chin—he found that he couldn't bring himself to gaze into his own eyes. They were probably liquid by now, anyway. Neither could he raise the beam to witness Mulder's expression in death, for he knew what he would see. It was better to remember the hazel eyes, bright with fervor, and the full lips moving as he spoke—even in anger—rather than to see the crack in his skull and the congealed blood marring his features. It hadn't even been the real Krycek; why had Mulder killed himself over a clone? It made no sense—as soon as he saw the green blood he should've.. 

Oh, thought Krycek. Mulder was red-green color blind. 

He slid to the ground, back grinding painfully against the car door, watching as the flashlight tumbled out of his hand and rolled into the darkness. Turned his gun over in his hands, unable to look at it in detail, but able to feel the impression of it against his flesh. Krycek could recall the first time he'd held one of these with perfect clarity; he'd been struck by how smooth and cold it was, deadly, like a snake. He had named his first gun Cobra. 

_You know what you have to do_ said the voice inside his head, beckoning to him. 

But Krycek wasn't sure, pressing fingers against the icy barrel of his weapon, testing its weight. He wanted to touch Mulder; he could, if he broke the glass and unlocked the door. It wouldn't be difficult, and then he could say goodbye. 

_Mulder is dead. What's in the car is a husk_ said the voice. It was authoritative enough, sounding vaguely like one of his employers. _There's nothing left._

His eyes squeezed shut, but there were no tears. The last time he'd cried, he had been eight; the smoking man had ordered a grunt to pummel and torture him until he could stand the blows without breaking. It had taken three days. 

_You know what you have to do_ whispered the voice in its most enticing incarnation; Mulder's voice. _Follow in my footsteps._

* * *

Date: January 2000   
Fandom: X-Files   
Contact: [email removed], please, feedback!   
Spoilers: Tunguska   
Rating: PG for cursing, blood, etc.   
Class: Story/Angst   
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek, slash   
Keywords: Mulder Krycek slash character death   
Summary: A spin-off from Tunguska; the similarities end when Mulder leaves Krycek in the car at the airport. Also a revisiting of Romeo and Juliet, X-Files style.   
Disclaimer: The X-Files and everything therein belong to Chris Carter, 1013, Fox, and company. I'm just borrowing shamelessly. Without profit, I swear.   
Notes: Beta by Julie and Orithain, 'cause I begged.   
---


	3. III: Wherefore Art Thou

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A spin-off from Tunguska; the similarities end when Mulder leaves Krycek in the car at the airport. Also a revisiting of Romeo and Juliet, X-Files style.

  
**Graveyard III**

Wherefore Art Thou   
by Meri Lomelindi 

  
Mulder tore through the parking lot, mindless of the fact that he had knocked over two old ladies and kicked a crippled boy's wheelchair in the process. His mind was running in overdrive, and his thoughts were speeding by so quickly that he could barely make any sense out of them. Thank God the Lone Gunmen were so paranoid; when they'd located Krycek, they had immediately contacted him. Their initial assumption had been that he would relish any chance to do away with the man that they had nicknamed the rat; little indeed did they know about his midnight trysts with Krycek, which had become a regular part of his schedule. 

But Krycek had been missing for months, and he had begun to assume that the other man was dead. Now, armed with this new knowledge, he thought that if he could just get to Krycek in time, before anyone else discovered his whereabouts, he could keep him from harm's way. They could go—oh, anywhere—he could go to any city and they'd always have something to investigate. As long as Krycek was alive and with him, it would be fine. 

Too late he reached the car, watching from just a few dozen feet away as the figure, shaded in darkness, pointed a gun at his head and pulled the trigger. There was no doubt from the smooth lines of the body, the stupid-ass haircut, the length of the limbs; it was Alex Krycek. 

Krycek reclined against the car door, oddly peaceful, head resting on the handle; if it hadn't been for the pool of blood that surrounded him, one might have thought that he was just taking a leisurely nap. It was too much blood for a head wound, Mulder thought, but then he dismissed it as irrelevant. If there was another assassin around, he was probably dead as well. What mattered was that the man he valued more than the truth itself had just taken his own life. 

// You know what you have to do // whispered a voice with the same gruff quality that Krycek's had sometimes, when he was trying to get Mulder in bed. Mulder was tempted to heed it. 

* * *

Krycek burned rubber as he sped through the parking lot in a nondescript sedan that was definitely not built for such driving, as the tires were probably being worn to shreds with each turn. He didn't care, though; he had to get to Mulder. He was in grave danger; Mulder was always in danger, no matter the cause, but this time, there were Consortium assassins and he had to hurry and save Mulder. He had to - 

There was a shot, and then he was so intent on Mulder's body, slumped over the oozing green body of a clone, that he forgot to steer the car and was barely aware of his lack of a seat belt when the car crashed into Mulder's former rental car and he pitched through the windshield. 

* * *

"Huh?" 

"I have to go, Scully," Mulder was saying, excitement dancing in his voice. "I just got a tip—don't follow me. It's much too dangerous for you." She watched with annoyance and an eye-roll as he jumped into the bucar and headed off to the airport. He was ALWAYS ditching her. Well, he'd see. Next time maybe she wouldn't even be there for him to ditch. Glaring at the spot where he'd last been, she tossed her cell phone into the nearest trash can and headed off to arrange a meeting with the Assistant Director. 

* * *

Two men stood side by side in the parking lot of the airport, silently surveying the damage. Bodies piled upon bodies piled upon bodies, most of them already disintegrated into a river of green ooze. Bodies piled upon cars; five cars, in fact, smashed and trashed. Business suits and leather jackets, hundreds of recently fired weapons. But it was the aftermath of something; the corpses were now undisturbed, and no one else was approaching. 

"It looks like a graveyard," observed the first man atonally, running a hand through his hair with a weary sigh. 

"Not really," said the second man. He sounded unusually calm for someone who had witnessed a veritable disaster, and as they watched, he took a drag from his cigarette and turned to eye his companion meaningfully. 

"I didn't know you smoked," the first man commented with no small amount of distaste. 

The second man grinned at him, snuffed the cigarette, and tossed it onto the pavement. "I don't, ordinarily. And they're just Marlboro's." He swung an arm around the first man, roughly encircling his shoulders and drawing him close. 

The first man wrinkled his nose. "They make your breath smell," he said as he dug into his pocket. After retrieving a breath mint, he popped it into his mouth and chewed lazily. 

Brow wrinkled, the second man looked curious. "I thought I was the one who had bad breath, not you." He was steadfastly ignored by the first man until he'd finished chewing, and then the first man tilted the second man's chin with his free hand and pressed their lips together. Sucking noises ensued for several minutes, and when they broke apart, the first man wore a contented smile. He snickered, and they both gazed at each other until the first man got a determined gleam in his eye. 

"I have to admit that I am awed by your ability to execute hundreds of people without laying a finger on them," he said. 

"Clones, not people," the second man scolded. "And I did shoot the very first one." 

He was awarded with the first man's baleful glare. "As I was saying—despite my awe, I still want to know why they were so willing to kill themselves. Why didn't the -your- clones notice that my clones had green blood? And why are they taking so long to disintegrate? The last time I saw one of these, it dissolved right before my eyes." 

The second man rolled his eyes skyward for a moment, but then started to speak. "You always have to know everything, don't you, Mulder? Fine. The smoking man hired a new biologist to manufacture this model of clone, and he miscalculated when he was fixing the personality algorithms. There's a massive chemical imbalance that can lead to psychotic tendencies. Once they'd gotten attached to someone, there was no stopping them. The color of the blood wouldn't have even registered in one of my clone's minds, as long as the corpse had your face." 

"Okay," Mulder agreed, "but why are they still here? How do you propose to dispose of the ooze?" 

"Oh," said the other man, waving his hand carelessly, "it will evaporate by morning. This model of clone is supposed to be the new, 'long-lasting' variety. Apparently the smoking man wanted the clones to remain intact for a half hour after being terminated so that he could revive them and extract information, if he so desired." He pursed his lips. 

"Bastard," Mulder said, nuzzling the other man's neck. "So what do we do now, Alex?" 

"Don't call me that. I told you—when you let me refer to you as Fox, then you can call me Alex to your heart's content. Till then, it's—" 

"Krycek," Mulder interrupted. "I know." He twisted his face into a traditional pout. 

"You're not going to get anywhere that way, I promise you," Krycek warned, but he was beginning to smile. 

"That's okay." Mulder draped his own arm around his lover's shoulders and propelled him away from the mountain of corpses. "So what -do- we do?" 

Krycek delved into the pocket of his worn leather jacket and produced a pair of matching tickets. "What do you think about San Francisco? It's a veeeeeeeeerry large city—almost impossible to find someone there, you know? I've got us booked under different names, of course, and we can spend a few days relaxing until the smoking man accepts the loss of his pet project.." 

Mulder's grin widened. "I love it when you're devious," he murmured contentedly. "I should call Scully, though, so that she won't worry." Flipping his cell phone on, he punched in the speed-dial and then stared at it, puzzled. 

"Something wrong?" inquired Krycek, the picture of concern. 

"Yeah. It's funny; Scully isn't answering her cell phone.." 

The end. (Or is it?) 

* * *

Date: January 2000   
Fandom: X-Files   
Contact: [email removed], feedback, please.   
Spoilers: Tunguska   
Rating: PG   
Class: Story/Angst/Humor   
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek, slash   
Keywords: Mulder Krycek slash character death   
Summary: A spin-off from Tunguska; the similarities end when Mulder leaves Krycek in the car at the airport. Also a revisiting of Romeo and Juliet, X-Files style.   
Disclaimer: The X-Files and everything therein belong to Chris Carter, 1013, Fox, and company. I'm just borrowing shamelessly. Without profit, I swear.   
Notes: Beta by Julie and Orithain, 'cause I begged.   
---


End file.
